Robes
by SunnyBunny99
Summary: You knew it was a bad idea to break into Severus Snape's personal quarters. Yet here you are...


ROBES

A Snape x Reader Oneshot

You really shouldn't have been there that evening. There was no good reason to be hovering outside the door of Professor Severus Snape's personal quarters...that is, besides your own mingled desire and curiosity. You knew full well he would see straight through your stupid question about the properties of gillyweed; after all, being his apprentice, you had several books on the herb and the answer to your query could've come from any one of them. However, lately you had found yourself unable to withstand long periods of time away from his presence, even if he was across the room. Just seeing his tall dark figure gave you a strange sense of peace and security. The Potions Master seemed totally oblivious to you, and your occasional interactions were about the same as they were with anyone else: Snape sneering scornfully and throwing jaded, barbed sarcasm as you stammered and tried not to lose your nerve.

But you are known for being foolhardy if nothing else. So here you are, staring at the heavy oaken door with its dark lacquer and wondering what lay beyond.

You lift your fist--once, twice, three times your knuckles fall upon the wood. The timid rapping echoes down the narrow, chilly corridor of the Slytherin dungeons, but the only response is the steady dripping of lake water down the mossy stone walls.

Damn. He's gone. You should have known, really; he offhandedly mentioned something about a staff conference a few days ago but you weren't really listening...perhaps because you had been staring at his mouth for too long to pay attention to the words coming out of it.

Anyhow, you came all the way down here, and you're not about to waste your time. Cautiously you draw your wand and wave it in an arc, searching for defensive wards or alert trigger spells of any sort. Oddly enough, there seem to be none.

A quick tap and a murmured "Alohamora" later, the lock clicks and Snape's chamber door swings open with a squeak. You cross the threshold with a furrowed brow, wondering blindly why such a secretive man would leave his personal quarters so vulnerable. But the sight which greets you inside wipes your mind of anything else, and you gasp softly before shutting the door behind you.

Snape's room is larger than you anticipated. Orange embers of a dying fire smolder in a hearth on the far right wall, opposite the bed. Your jaw nearly drops at the huge, luxurious four-poster affair with its deep green velvet curtains and what looks to be black satin sheets. The rest of the furniture is sparse: a nightstand by the bedside, a high-backed leather chair by the fireplace with a copy of The Daily Prophet folded neatly on the seat, a scruffy loveseat in a shadowy corner by the bookshelves.

Oh, the bookshelves...! They steal your breath. Packed end to end with novels and volumes and tomes and epics and instruction manuals and magazines and recipe books--there are so many that waist-high stacks are piled haphazardly against the sides of the shelves; there are even some on top of the shelves too. Until now, you had no idea that Professor Snape loved literature so much.

You peruse the shelves for a short time, lovingly tracing your fingers over the spines. You're pleased to see that none of these books have dust on them, a sign that the Professor reads them regularly.

You draw in a deep breath to release as a contented sigh when the smell of the room catches your attention. You notice several candles around the space, a couple on the nightstand and a clutch on the mantle, but this seems to be a smell uniquely its own. It's something so different from anything else...something dark and heavy and enticing. Cauldron steam with a hint of crushed herbs and cedar offset by a splash of whiskey, perhaps? Or is it wood smoke, old leather and dark chocolate? There are so many layers that it's difficult to place even one with certainty.

Whatever it is, you recognize that scent immediately. It's the same which assails you every time Snape sweeps by in the classroom or in the corridor, seeming to roll in waves from his robes like an invisible hook to snag the senses of unwary passerby.

And his robes...Merlin knows how many times you've eyed that length of black cloth with poorly disguised longing as you watched the hem lick seductively across the flagstones or ripple behind its wearer like great dark wings. You wonder what it feels like, that cloak. You imagine what it would be like to have it sliding over your skin as the Professor runs his hands slowly down--

With a muffled hiss you surface from your daydreams and blink, and then you suddenly see it. Snape must have left it when he went to the meeting; it hangs on the bedpost like a dream become reality. In a daze you step forward, reach out, tug it gently from the post and an involuntary moan falls from your lips as you finally feel the cloth slipping over your palms, tickling your sensitive fingertips. It seems to be a bewildering hybrid of velvet and silk; the warmth and weight perfectly compliments its supple, slippery softness.

And yes, it smells of him.

Suddenly the chill of the room becomes evident, and without a second thought you drape the cloak around your own shoulders. You wriggle delightedly, reveling in the caress of the fabric against your bare forearms. It's November, and the Scottish highlands get ridiculously cold, but recently you've made a habit of rolling your sleeves to the elbow when working in the Potions lab. Some ingredients can be quite messy, and the last thing you want is to walk the halls of Hogwarts looking like a ragamuffin.

You're so caught up in the moment that you never hear the footsteps outside, nor the gruff snort of surprise at the unlocked door. A nonverbal Silencing Charm is cast on the squeaky door hinges before it is pushed open, revealing you--a seventh-year student, standing in her teacher's bedroom wearing his cloak and tittering like a lovesick pigeon.

"What--" the words are soft and low and deadly--"the hell do you think you're doing?"

You nearly piss yourself in shock. With a yelp you whirl around and there he is--all six feet and two inches of black-clad menace silhouetted in the doorway. Amidst a numbing wave of panic some treacherously hormonal part of your brain takes the time to note the snugness of his frock coat over broad shoulders and chest, the graceful curve of his slender waist and the sight of his long fingers flexing restlessly under the sliver of white cloth visible past his sleeves.

"Well?" Snape demands, stepping into the room and slamming the door with a flick of his wand; you could swear you hear the lock click again. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I..." Terror stumbles your tongue over any coherent words you could hope to form in the moment. You're a dead woman. Not only have you broken into and entered an opposite gendered staff member's personal chambers, some stupid part of you decided that you needed to wear his clothes too.

Oh yes, you are dead beyond belief.

"You what?" growls the Potions Master, his deep, rich bass voice sending shudders through your body, even mocking as his tone is. "You just decided it would be fun to intrude on my privacy? Thought I would appreciate you...rubbing your face all over my clothing?"

Your cheeks flare with heat and color. "That--that's not--"

"Of course not. It never is, is it?" Snape approaches you, and you dance backwards. You don't like the way he's walking--ever so slowly, in a slinky sidestep like a panther about to pounce. His eyes have a strange smoky glitter to them that you're unfamiliar with, and his tone is bizarrely calm.

"You never mean to get into trouble, Miss Y/L/N," he continues softly, with a dangerous smirk suddenly playing around the corners of his curvy mouth, "and yet..." Slowly one hand reaches up and you swear your heart skips a beat as his forefinger brushes your chin, "...trouble somehow always manages to find you...doesn't it?"

He's whispering now, and you have to forcibly hold back the shudders of mingled fear and lust coursing through you.

"With my luck, usually," you manage to croak back.

"Then in this case," Snape smirks, "I suppose I am the trouble..?"

Confusion starts you from the daze you're in--"N-no, sir. What do you mean?"

"I found you, did I not?" Snape asks softly, dangerously. "And you know that I am not a nice man by conventional standards."

You swallow reflexively, but your mouth and throat are so dry that it just clicks loudly; the black-clad teacher smirks again. "Nervous, are we?" he rumbles, arching one black brow.

"Yes, sir," you answer truthfully; lying to an expert Legilimens while staring into his eyes would be foolish to the point of imbecility.

Snape makes a low hum of aloof curiosity and takes a half-step back, regarding you coolly. "And what is it, precisely, that you fear?" he murmurs in question. His tone holds an undercurrent of wicked seduction that makes you weak in the knees and damp between the thighs.

"Punishment, sir." Your reply is a breathy quaver. "I'm sorry."

"But are you really?"

His return question snaps in the chilled air like a bullwhip. You wince, half from the rough tone of his beautiful voice and half because you know what he's doing and you just stumbled straight into his trap. You have to find a way out; maybe, if you try...

Hoping desperately and grasping at straws, you casually let your eyes dart away from Snape's--

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, girl!"

Dammit! He caught you again. Now you have no choice but to tell the truth...that seemingly innocent question that is so loaded...

That thunderous voice sounds again: "My fragile patience is coming to its end; answer the damn question or I'll start docking House points for every second you continue to hesitate. Are you sorry or aren't you?" he demands. When you look up, his black eyes are flashing in irritation.

You don't know if he's using Legilimency now or not; those irises are too dark to tell. So, fueled by fear and desperation, you make a gamble. "Yes, sir, I am sorry," you blurt. "I'm incredibly sorry. I didn't mean to pry or intrude, and it won't happen again, I swear--!"

One pale, graceful hand silences you. Time freezes--his long index finger is poised a hairsbreadth from your lips, and with some odd clinical detachment you note the neatly trimmed nails and smooth skin stretched taut over fine bones and a ropy pattern of bluish veins.

Then his hand falls away and you can breathe again.

Twin pinpricks of light glitter in his eyes as he stares you down in the dimness. His lips part and he hisses gently, "Hasn't your mother ever told you it's not nice to lie?"

Your heart shudders and skips several beats. Your gamble has failed; he can sense your deception.

Snape takes one step, two, three; you are practically chest-to-chest, craning to look up into that pale, angular, angry face even as he smolders down into yours. His raven hair is long and thick and glossy--others call it grease but you've always appreciated a healthy sheen of natural oils--as the tresses sway down to brush your jaw. You have to clench your fists to avoid scratching the tickle.

"I wasn't lying," you answer weakly.

"Ah, yes, keep digging yourself into the hole," Snape sneers. "And here I was, thinking you were smart enough to know better." A pause, and he purses his lips thoughtfully. "You know...you've caught me in a rather...generous mood tonight. So, I'm going to offer you a chance of redemption."

"What is it?" Your whole being floods with relief; he might not turn you into a carpet stain after all.

Looming over you, the Potions Master is practically simmering like a cauldron of Amortentia; you can sense the powerful waves of magical energy rolling off his body. For all the calm facade he puts up, he's internally wound tighter than a bowstring.

"Tell me the truth and I will let you go free with no repercussion," he says. "Tell me why you were here, and if you lie to me again there will be no mercy or second chances."

To hell with it. "I wanted to see you," you confess.

"Why?"

"I..." You stammer silently, unsure of how to respond. You had thought up the excuse about gillyweed beforehand, but that would count as a lie. "I wanted to...tell you something," you finally get out. Well, that is true...

Snape sidles even closer, and in moving away you suddenly feel the hard coolness of a bedpost between your shoulder blades. It's then that the dark wizard makes his move, reaching up over your head to wrap his hands around the post, ever so casually leaning in and trapping you between his body and the bed. His chest is solid and warm, his hair sweeping lightly over your cheek; he glitters darkly down at you.

"What is it you'd like to tell me?" Evil man. He has taken his voice to the deepest, darkest, softest and most seductive register possible, in the realm of velvet and melted chocolate and double bass cellos. He's using it as a weapon...and damn, is it ever working.

"I..." You're almost dizzy with desire. "I want you..."

His smirk is pure foreplay. "Want me to what?" he purrs, his breath ghosting across your lips. It smells like peppermint.

Oh, blast it all to Hades. You can't stop this...you don't want to. Student/teacher relationships are strictly forbidden, not to mention that the man pressing you against the bedpost is eighteen years your senior, but just one moment of indulgence can't hurt...

So, you tilt your head back and look into his eyes and gasp, "Kiss me."

And so he does.

And later on that night he does far, far more.

And the next morning you walk out of Professor Severus Snape's chambers with a radiant smile.

He never tells anyone about having caught you sneaking about his room.

FIN.


End file.
